A Quiet Understanding
by Fistful of Gamma Rays
Summary: A doctor and a vigilante find some common ground on Omega.


His dislocated shoulder jarred sickeningly against the bone of his cowl with each heavy step Garrus took, but he couldn't stop running. His breath was a shallow rasp, with the stab of broken ribs at the bottom, and his left boot was filling with blood from where Garm had broken his fucking spur. His suit had run out of medigel a good five blocks back, and the pain was starting to leak back in.

It had looked like such a good opportunity – Garm had been a little drunk, and out of sight or earshot of his gang, taking a leisurely piss on a pile of refuse at the very edge of Blood Pack territory. He had been alone and armed with nothing bigger than a combat knife. Of course, so was Garrus, but that hadn't given him more than a moment's pause. Taking on a krogan hand-to-hand was always a dangerous proposition, but it could be done, if you were quick and clever. Garrus was, and he'd had plenty of practice.

What he hadn't counted on was Garm's impressive ability to regenerate almost anything short of actual decapitation. He had never seen a krogan regenerate eyes before in less than a couple of hours. It had taken Garm less than five minutes of blind fighting to regain rudimentary eyespots. It had turned what should have been a short, decisive encounter (one way or another) into a messy, surprisingly even brawl that left them both badly damaged. Even then, he might have won in the end if it hadn't been for the spirits-damned vorcha. They'd shown up out of nowhere and descended upon them with a howl. Garrus had wasted no time in running like hell.

He'd lost the vorcha for now – they were tenacious, but they weren't smart or thorough – but he'd continued running, trying to put as much distance between himself and the Blood Pack as possible. He stumbled, and a choked hiss made its way through his throat as the uneven motion jarred his injuries. He swayed as he straightened up, momentarily dizzy, feeling the blood in his boot slosh queasily around his hock. He dragged himself heavily into the shadow of the alley and leaned against the wall, fighting for breath and trying to think.

He knew he needed medical attention. He'd pass out soon, and then it would be a toss-up as to which got him first, the vorcha or the stray varren. Desperately, he sorted through his options. There were hospitals on Omega, funded by the mercenary groups to tend to their employees. That was out. The only private clinic he knew of was Solus' and that was deep in Suns territory. By now, Garm would have all the gangs scrambling for a half-dead turian, and they'd be idiots if they weren't watching the clinic.

Solus had a reputation, though. He was good at his job, knew his way around trauma. The Suns avoided him, and the locals knew that he took doctor-patient confidentiality seriously. He might very well be willing and able to treat him outside the clinic – if Garrus could track him down.

Shakily, he opened his omni-tool interface, damn near biting through his tongue as the motion jarred his shoulder. It took only a very little bit of digging to find out where deliveries addressed to Mordin Solus wound up. Not entirely surprising that he hadn't put more trouble into hiding his address. Solus was rumored to be former STG, and no one wanted to get on their bad side. It was close by, fortunately. He shut down the interface and pushed off from the wall, giving himself a minute for the dizziness to fade. Then he set his mandibles and lurched back into a hitching jog, making for Solus' apartment.

By the time he got there, he was shivering and the things he saw and heard were slightly blurred at the edges. Dimly, he suspected the medigel had finally worn all the way off. By sheer, dumb good luck, no one had seen him as he'd entered the building, and he'd finally made his way to a small door with the name 'Solus' on it. The doorbell elicited no response from inside. The doctor was most likely still at the clinic. It took him two attempts to hack the lock, but he managed it and gratefully stumbled inside to a cramped, but scrupulously tidy apartment. He limped to the bathroom, and found a first aid kit in the cabinet. He was lucky again, or maybe Solus was just that conscientious – it contained dextro and levo options. He dumped all the medigel into his suit port and swallowed the anti-inflammatories. He considered the coag spray, but the thought of prying the greave off his injured leg one-handed was more than he could bear. He settled for a towel to stanch the blood leaking out the damaged seal at the back of his knee and retreated to the doctor's tiny, uncomfortable couch to wait.

Sitting down was a painful, tricky process with a busted shoulder and a broken spur, and it took him a few minutes to figure it out. When it was done, he just sat there for a minute, staring up at the ceiling while the dizziness slowly retreated. After a moment, he gingerly reached up with his good hand and dragged off his helmet. The movement pulled painfully at his damaged ribs, but it felt good to have the open air against his face. He sat there and breathed it in until finally, he lost consciousness.

* * *

"Neighbors unharmed, report no suspicious noise. Lock hacked, but no damage. Blood in stairwell, turian." A swift inhale. "Patient, not burglar." Mordin still kept his pistol out as he opened the door.

The intruder was sprawled uncomfortably on his couch, unconscious. Turian, male, fairly young. A soggy towel at the back of the left knee above a badly damaged spur, left arm held tightly to the body in a way that suggested injury. Mordin hurried over, holstering the pistol as he went. He checked the pulse in the man's neck. Rapid, but steady.

"Will live," he said with some satisfaction. It was always good when they lived.

The turian had found the first aid kit in the bathroom and made use of it. Mordin nodded in approval as he took stock of what was missing. "Well done. Intelligent." He extracted what he needed and returned to the living area. The spur had to be dealt with before anything else could be done.

Carefully, he removed the towel. It was sticky and stiff at the edges, but no fresh blood followed it. The armor protecting the spur below it was cracked and the spur almost completely separated from the leg. Turian leg armor was designed to split open in two pieces to accommodate this type of injury, but it was still difficult to remove the greave and boot without causing further damage. When it was done, he cut away the undersuit above the knee, carefully peeling the pieces away while he supported the damaged spur with one hand.

"Lucky to be unconscious for this," he muttered.

There was a long, raw oval of weeping blue flesh where the spur had attached to the leg, but the artery at the back of the knee was unharmed. Judging by the amount of blood this man had lost, he had been running for some distance after the injury had occurred. Now that he had stopped moving, the blood had begun to coagulate, forming a sticky skin at the wound's edges. Mordin cleaned and disinfected both faces of the wound and moved the spur back to its original location as gently as he could manage. He glued the cracks in the plating below it to give it some support, but left the join between spur and leg alone for the moment. There would be swelling for the next few days. Best not to repair the plates until it subsided. He bandaged the damaged spur tightly to his patient's calf and straightened up to deal with the other injuries.

The turian woke up while Mordin was in the process of removing his cuirass. Suddenly there was a hand on his wrist and he was staring into a pair of alert blue eyes.

"Ah. Awake. Need to remove armor to check extent of injuries."

The turian blinked slowly, and removed his hand. "Dr. Solus."

"Yes. Know where you are, then. Good. Name?"

"Garrus." The turian moved his hand to his opposite shoulder, fumbling at the latches on his armor.

Mordin moved to assist. "No family name?" he inquired.

A short, pained bark of laughter. "Not on Omega. Careful, shoulder's dislocated."

Mordin sniffed. "Am a doctor. Always careful."

It took a while to remove the armor. By the time they were done, the skin around Garrus' eyes and under his jaw had gone pale at the unavoidable jostling of his shoulder.

Mordin eyed his patient critically. "Dislocated shoulder, probable broken ribs, cracked pectoral plate. Fight with krogan?"

Garrus' mandibles splayed into a grimace. "How'd you guess?"

"Pattern of injuries familiar. Poor choice of opponent."

A toothy grin. "They go down like anyone else if you know what you're doing. Used to have a krogan sparring partner."

Mordin paused in inspecting the fractured surface of the primary pectoral plate. "Friendly sparring? Unusual for turian and krogan."

"We were hired for the same job. Took us a while to get used to each other. Interesting guy." A stifled gasp as Mordin carefully shifted his arm to get a better look. "Deeper than you'd think."

"Often the case," he said quietly after a moment. "Krogan frequently underestimated, treated as brutes. Not true - have culture, complex society. Tragic."

Garrus eyed him curiously as he straightened up. "I suppose so."

He sniffed critically. "Will treat other injuries at clinic. Sedation preferable for shoulder reduction."

Immediately, his patient shook his head. "No. Can't go to the clinic."

Mordin eyed him speculatively. "No?"

"No."

Absently, he hummed a few bars of _Der __Rosenkavalier_, staring down at the turian. Garrus stubbornly returned his gaze.

"Very well. Will deal with shoulder now. Afraid this will hurt."

Garrus clutched his discarded pauldron in his good hand and stared fixedly at the ceiling. "Just get it over with."

Mercifully, he whited out during the procedure. Mordin sacrificed a blanket to immobilize the joint and did what little he could for the ribs with the aid of the bare-bones scanner on his omni-tool. He could at least be reasonably sure of a lack of internal damage and proper alignment. Garrus had been lucky that the run had not displaced any of the bones. He glued the cracked plating and arranged his patient as comfortably as possible on the couch before cleaning up the mess and retiring for the night.

* * *

Garrus woke to a sick, throbbing pain in his shoulder and leg and a duller, bruised ache over his entire left side. He was disoriented for a moment at the unfamiliar surroundings before he remembered what had happened. Garm, and then Solus.

He heard the hiss of the door and tensed, acutely aware that he was stripped down to underarmor and in no shape to run or fight. There was a vaguely familiar, slightly nasal humming, and then Solus moved into his view and he relaxed. The salarian blinked as he sighted him and smiled.

"Ah. Good. Awake again. Retrieved supplies from clinic. Need to check on injuries."

Solus moved closer, and Garrus could see he was carrying a bag with him. He extracted bandages, a hand-held scanner, and a bottle of pills from it. He set them down and moved to the apartment's kitchen, returning with a glass of water. He shook one of the pills out and handed it to Garrus along with the glass.

"For the pain."

Awkwardly, he swallowed it, managing to spill only a little of the water on himself. The glass had been designed for a species with lips. Solus knelt alongside Garrus' bad leg in the meantime, muttering to himself as he inspected his handiwork. Gradually, the pain receded to a dull shadow.

"Ready?" Solus asked him.

"Go ahead."

He couldn't see what the doctor was doing from this angle, but given what he remembered of that injury, he couldn't be sorry for it. It hurt, a lot, and he was glad of the painkiller. He saw Solus' hand come up and set a handful of bloody bandages on the side table and reach for the roll of clean ones. He nudged it into the doctor's grasp with his good hand and received an absent thanks. After a moment, Solus spoke.

"Blue Suns at clinic today. Looking for Archangel."

"Oh?" he said, carefully.

"Apparently got into fight with Weyrloc Garm. Badly injured."

He hummed noncommittally, carefully watching what he could see of Solus' face. The doctor's eyes gave away nothing, intent on his work. After a few heartbeats, he spoke again, slowly.

"Archangel's work... admirable. Omega difficult environment. Cruel. People need hope, assistance where possible."

Garrus let the silence rest between them for a while before replying. "Like your clinic."

Solus straightened up and began doing something at his shoulder, which, he belatedly realized, was wrapped in a cheerful orange and green quilt. The salarian's eyes darted over to meet his and the doctor gave a firm nod.

"Yes. Like clinic."

The blanket fell away, and Solus extracted a sling from the bag. Between them, they maneuvered his arm into it.

"Used to be STG," Solus said, inspecting the angle of his elbow. "Fine work. Challenging. But ethically difficult." He blinked once, and met Garrus' eyes again. "Old now. Came to Omega to give something back. Do something good with remaining time." Satisfied with his work, he left the sling to fiddle with the settings on the scanner before passing it along Garrus' injured side.

After a moment, Garrus spoke quietly. Solus had offered him a confidence and an understanding, and he owed something in kind. "A friend died. I needed to _do_ something. So I came to Omega."

Solus' eyes, large and black, met his. Gently and unexpectedly, the doctor laid a hand on his uninjured shoulder. "Sorry for your loss. Always difficult."

"Yes," he said, after a moment.

Solus finished the examination without speaking further. When he was done, he reached into the bag again and extracted a package of the ubiquitous, tasteless Hierarchy military rations.

"Apologies for the food. Could not obtain fresh dextro-amino supplies without rousing suspicion. Rations unpalatable, but nutritious, already had stock at clinic."

"Thanks, doctor."

"No need for thanks." He inhaled. "Injuries severe, but will mend. Should stay here for next few days. After that, at-home care sufficient, if patient refrains from fistfights with krogan."

Garrus gave him a lopsided smile. "Don't think I'll be trying it again anytime soon."

"Good. Need to return to clinic. Will be back in evening."

* * *

The next few days were frustrating, as well as painful. Garrus had always been a restless patient, and the knowledge that the mercenary groups were actively looking for him did nothing to make his inactivity more palatable. He managed to get a message out to his squad indicating that he was alive and laying low for the time being. He spent most of the rest of his convalescence tweaking the programs he had stored on his omni-tool. He wrote the doctor a better door lock while he was at it, but left himself a backdoor, just in case he wound up here again.

Solus returned from the clinic in the evenings to check over his injuries and bring him more terrible rations to eat. He was talkative while he worked. He seemed eager, almost, to share some of his stories from his time in the STG, and Garrus got the occasional feeling that this was something like a confessional for him. They'd danced around the topic of Archangel on that first morning and never returned to it, but there was an unspoken understanding between them. Omega crushed its inhabitants, chewed them up and spit their bones out. He and Solus were there to help the ones they could.

He reciprocated Solus' STG stories with stories of his own, from his long-ago days in the Hierarchy military, and a few heavily-edited tales of his time with Shepard. Solus was intrigued and gladdened at the ones that included Wrex, and he wondered at that, but did not pry.

Sometimes, he would wake in the night or early morning to find Solus listening to quiet music. He was fond of human opera and operettas, as well as traditional salarian choral works. Once or twice, he played some of the old turian songs, pieces of the great epics. The doctor would still from his normally manic pace to listen, a quiet smile on his face, eyes half closed in concentration.

"Salarian sleep cycle short," he explained to Garrus. "Keep to quiet activity so as not to disturb neighbors. Music soothing, evocative." A brief smile. "Meditative, almost. Will refrain if keeping you awake."

"It's fine, doctor."

All told, it took nearly a week before his spur was healed enough for Solus to glue the plates back together and let him leave. By unspoken mutual accord, the doctor saw him to the door, but no farther. If anyone was waiting for him out there, better Mordin Solus not be seen in his company.

"Do not put stress on shoulder or spur. Continue to take medicine, change bandages daily, call me if complications occur." A glare. "_Any_ complications. Spur injury serious, infection still a possibility."

He gave a lazy grin. "I will. Don't worry, doctor. I'll wait a while before seeking my revenge."

That got him an alarmed expression and a rapid head-shake. "_No_ revenge seeking. Hotheaded. Reckless. Going to die young."

That gave him pause. He supposed, at the rate he was going, that was a distinct possibility. He summoned up another smile, more subdued. "Not for a while. I'll be careful. Won't let your hard work go to waste."

Solus eyed him again, and sighed. "Can't be dissuaded, I see. Understand. Be careful."

"I will. Thanks, Mordin."

"No thanks necessary." He paused and smiled, gently patting Garrus' arm. "Appreciated the company. If you or... friends need assistance, do not hesitate to call."

"It's been a pleasure, doctor."

With that, he walked out the door and down the steps, to where Mierin and Sensat would be waiting with a car. He would take his medication and change the bandages and watch for complications as he'd promised.

And for the next few weeks, at least, he would be careful.

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AN: Thanks to whoever prompted this over on LJ! Beautiful idea!


End file.
